


Nec Spe, Nec Metu

by rougefox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:13:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rougefox/pseuds/rougefox
Summary: Sansa learns how to survive in a world heading towards destruction.





	Nec Spe, Nec Metu

**Author's Note:**

> just roll with it

Sansa recovered from her swoon. The world faded from dark to light. The first thing she saw was a woman she did not know out in the small folk gathered to watch her family's betrayal. She was cheering, smiling, a spray of red across her twisted face.

 

In that moment Sansa saw the world as it actually was; ugly, evil, filled with monsters that were not restricted to underneath her bed.

 

Her father's body was still twitching, an evil dance even as his head was held aloft for the masses to jeer and scream at.

 

She waited till she was alone back in her tower room to vomit up her breakfast.

 

 

***

 

 

The pain was like a living thing in her belly as the mailed fist was driven into her stomach once again.

 

It writhed and slithered up her spine and down to her groin where it forked and shot down to the souls of her feet.

 

Holding her head high Sansa walked on the bed of jagged glass that had become her reality.

 

She made it past the courtiers, their mocking faces and sharp japes never wavering her step.

 

It wasn’t till she was within sight of her room in Maeger’s Holdfast did she faulter; her knees subcoming to the pain in her center, betraying her by folding in defeat.

 

The stone of the floor rushed up to meet her till a strong hand caught her and lifted her up. The world spun and suddenly the ceiling came into view.

 

“Get a fucking maester, you dumb cunt!” she heard a ragged voice bark at the nameless, faceless, interchangeable women who trailed her every move for the Queen.

 

Her vision was unfocused, but Sansa could see the underside of the Hound’s chin as he cradled her against his broad chest. Joffrey used every member of the Kingsguard to beat her but him.

 

His Grace had thought it amusing to have his dog escort her back to her room afterward, thinking she would never ask for help from such a man.

 

Sansa was always grateful for his presence. When he demanded someone see to her wounds, someone would.

 

He was no true knight, yet he helped her nonetheless.

 

 

***

 

 

Sansa…. Alyane she reminded herself…awoke with a jerk, a physical reaction to dream she couldn’t remember.

 

The old dog watched her from the foot of her bed.

 

“I wish you were Lady,” she whispered becoming aware that she was no longer in Kingslanding, but instead the barren rocks of the Fingers.

 

Alyane rolled over and rearranged the blankets to cover her completely, slipping them between her knees in hopes of easing the ache in her core.

 

The old dog would never be her direwolf, she thought before she drifted back to sleep.

 

 

***

 

 

Alyane moaned and writhed as she had been instructed under Harrold as he thrust between her legs for the first time.

 

When he rolled over and began to drunkenly snore Alyane breathed a sigh of relief. Her new husband didn’t know or care that what was supposed to be there wasn’t.

 

She lay on her marriage bed and tried not to think of how she lost what was supposed to be given that night.

 

Love was a song and as Peytr had told her and showed her, life was not a song.

 

Alyane drifted off to sleep and in a dream she would not remember upon waking someone demanded a song that this time she gave willingy.

 

***

 

He had called her “Cat” for the last time.

 

Sansa was sure of herself, she knew her name and it wasn’t “Aylane”.

 

(It was important to know one’s name).

 

Lother Brune’s sword swung true even as Sweet Robin commanded Littlefinger to “fly”.

 

Sansa (that was her name, even after all this time she was sure of it), squeezed her cousin's shoulder in support as Petyr Baelish’s corpse thrashed on the ground spraying the common folk gathered to watch the execution with drops of blood.

 

***

 

Sansa hoped the Northern lords did not notice her discomfort.

 

(Discomfort was a mild word describing how bloody cold she was.)

 

With Jon south with the Dragon Queen Sansa sat in meetings and councils all day and stayed up reading missives and reports at night.

 

It technically wasn’t her kingdom, but the North was home and she was determined to do right by it.

 

Focusing on the plight of the country was easier than her own reality; Tyrion, her Lannister husband had returned and it would only be a matter of time before she would be reunited with him.

 

She was no longer naive enough to believe that the gods made enough whores to keep her legally wed husband away from her bed. Her only hope was that Tyrion would stay on Dragonstone to manage the South while the Queen flew North.

 

Upon his return, Jon did the worst thing he could have possible done: brought her husband to her front door.

 

“Hello, my wife,” Tyrion Lannister hailed, his Hand of the Queen pin sparkled.

 

Sansa drew herself up to full height as she had done when he had attempted to put his cloak on her back.

 

“Hello, my husband.”

 

The next morning Sansa stood, her bare feet numb on the cold stone floor and watched the sun rise in the crisp winter air.

 

She once heard somewhere that standing after coupling prevented the man’s seed from taking root. Even though she had jumped up the second she heard her husband snore, she had decided to ask Brienne (surely the woman would hold her confidence) to bring her some moontea as soon as possible.

 

 

***

 

 

The North was starving.

 

Sansa looked over the tax records and coffer ledgers. Even with everything Littlefinger had taught her about money, she could see no relief.

 

They could last, five maybe six months with the previsions they had.

 

Sansa was already forgoing her own meals to help feed the never ending string of soldiers from the South coming with the Dragon Queen to fight beyond the Wall.

 

The maesters had told her that in order for her husband’s seed to take root, she would need to eat healthy portions which made her forgo meals in plentiful amounts.

 

One day, cold, exhausted and weak, Sansa found herself sitting before Lyanna Stark’s tomb.

 

The truth of Jon’s heritage had spread like wildfire through the small folk and nobles alike.

 

 _Star Crossed lovers_ they called his parents

 

 _The Prince Who was Promised_ they called her cousin.

 

Sansa studied the stone face of her aunt.

 

 _Melodramatic bitch_ she thought.

 

The page found her scowling up at the grave marker.

 

“My lady?”

 

“What is it?” she snapped not even looking in his direction.

 

The boy flinched back from her.

 

“A group of soldiers have arrived.”

 

Sansa let her court mask fall into place; “Feed them cold bacon rind and porridge after your alert my husband.”

 

“My lady, they refuse to speak with anyone but you.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“One claims to be the man your father sent to kill the Mountain, Beric Dondarrion. He claims the Lord of Light has instructed him to speak only with you….”

 

Sansa turned from the statue to fix the boy with an icy glare.

 

“Beric Dondarrion?”

 

The page squirmed; “ And another is a smith who claims to know your sister, Arya and one…..”

 

The boy faltered.

 

Sansa took a step forwards and he paced back.

 

“And one?”

 

“Claims to know you,” the boy ran to the bottom of the stairs before yelling back; “He claims to be The Hound, Sandor Clegane.”

 

***

 

From beyond the doorway to her chambers, Sansa heard a cheer rise up among the Lords of the North and soldiers from the South.

 

Twins. The first born in Winterfell in generations.

 

(Twins were common in the Westerland families, everyone knew that)

 

Maester Samwell held the cup of water to her lips as she drank deep.

 

Holding both her babies to her breasts was heavy work.

 

(Northern babies were always on the big side… everyone knew that)

 

They were the spitting image of their mother; red hair and fair skin but with grey eyes.

 

(Their grandfather’s eyes everyone said.)

 

Sansa never faulted when her husband walked through the door, a smile on his face and wine on his breath.

 

(She wondered how the whores in the Wintertown brothel celebrated with him when the news came…. Not that she had any right to judge...)

 

Tyrion smiled at her and held out his hands asking to hold the boy.

 

(In the corner Sansa heard the creak of studded leather armor as Sandor Clegane tightened his hold on his sword.)

 

“Would you like to name him Eddard?” her husband asked as he cooed at the baby.

 

Sansa smiled sweetly; “Thank you my husband, but I was thinking of “Ivor” after the hero of the first men who fought against the Others in the War for the Dawn and “Lynor” for the girl after the princess who…”

 

“Yes, yes,” her husband interrupted as he handed the fussy baby back to her. “Whatever you wish, my dear.”

 

Tyrion kissed her on the cheek, smiled at the babies and exited into the hall were people cheered and undoubtedly handed him wine.

 

Late in the night Sansa awoke alone in the dark.

 

She rose and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders. Breathing in the peace of the sleeping castle she slipped into the adjoining nursery. In the low light of a single blue glass lamp Sansa saw her two babes curled up protectively against their father's chest as she had once done so long ago.

 

***

 

Sansa Stark stood on the walls of Winterfell and reflected on the last twenty years. 

 

The Long Night had come and with it a time of monsters, magic and terror.

 

No one could have known or foreseen the result of the failure of the Wall; the magic that helped build it so long ago was released back into the world along with all the creatures entombed in the ice. 

 

Now ice giants and trolls, creatures that snatched children in the night and stole men's breath in their sleep roamed the North.

 

The dragon eggs under Dragonstone hatched and unlike Daenerys Targaryen's children the beasts heeded no human and roamed below the Neck wild and free. 

 

There were stories of giant bats in the Riverlands.

 

Krakens large enough to rip apart a whole ship had been seen in the waters off the Westerlands and The Reach.

 

Stone men haunted the Stormlands.

 

The Crown Lands still burned from Cersei Lannister's wildfire.

 

Dorne was said to be lush and blooming as the cold brought rain to the desert kingdom. 

 

Sansa sighed and watched her breath mist in the cold air. Behind her came the noise of the people who called Winterfell home. They grew winter wheat in roof top gardens, the plants reaching towards what little sunlight that shown these days. In the courtyard of the castle people hollered and laughed, chickens squawked, shaggy goats with long twisted horns bleated and tiny Wildling pigs covered in red hair with long tusks grunted in their pens. 

 

Silently, Sandor Clegane appeared at her side, standing erect looking out onto the snowy landscape. With Jon in the South, Rickon refusing to leave his island and Arya coming and going as she pleased, Sansa had become Lady of Winterfell for true. Behind the stonewalls she gave commands and ruled on issues and concerns. She oversaw trade and sent out troops as needed to her small folk beyond the fortifications of the castle. 

 

Once the Dragon Queen had finished with conquering the Night King, Tyrion Lannister had followed her South as he was needed at Court. In truth the Lords of the North and Wildling clan leaders had made it clear they found him lacking in the qualities they attributed to a strong leader; a brawny frame with the ability to swing a sword in battle, carry out the sentence of justice and most importantly, not be born a Lannister. 

 

The North Remembered and made sure the new Queen and her Hand never forgot.

 

The Northmen had found Sandor Clegane much more to their liking and never spoke a word against his relationship with their Lady. When Sansa had to make a sudden trip to court and returned to deliver a healthy baby boy six months later they merely remarked on how healthy the babe was despite his early birth. As the years went on her marriage to Tyrion faded from the Northern conscience; the increasingly expanding ice shelf over the Gift farm lands and the need for more frost resistant wheat was more important than the size of the Stark family regardless of the absence of Lady Stark's husband. 

 

 

A cold wind blew across the walls of Winterfell, pulling Sansa's hood off her head and tossing her loose hair off her shoulders. In the distance she spotted the war party marching to the castle.

 

"Lynor has returned," she smiled at the unmistakable bulk and flaming red hair of her eldest daughter. 

 

Next to her Sandor Clegane spoke; "Sometimes the girl has more courage than sense."

 

Sansa looked at her companion out of the corner of her eye. A small smile of pride made the burnt side of his face twitch. 

 

"Could you please tell Ivor his sister has returned?" she asked him. 

 

Sandor Clegane nodded. "Last I have seen of him, he was in your solar with Holly."

 

Sansa smiled then, barely containing her excitement she turned to him; "Her time is soon."

 

"I know," he breathed. "Time is a strange thing, is it not?"

 

"Not as fickle as hope," Sansa replied. "But it is more constant than fear."

 

"Fear is not forever," Sandor replied pulling her into an embrace. 

 

"One can not know one without experiencing the other," Sansa said her cheek pressed against his chest.

 

Sandor gently cradled her chin in his hand and tilted her head up so he could look her in the face. 

 

"And which one are you experiencing at the moment?"

 

Sansa smiled up at her lover and pulled him close for a kiss. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Nec Spe Nec Metu is latin for "Without Hope, Without Fear"


End file.
